Crux
by Ukaisha
Summary: Kouji's dark thoughts swell as the depression that's been eating him alive for years spirals rapidly out of control. There's never an excuse for suicide, but it's especially hard to forgive when it's done out of love. Read before "Enigma."


Disclaimer: The author does not own any characters mentioned in this story. Please do not redistribute this story.

Warnings: Strong language, sexual references, yaoi.  
KoujixTakuya pairing.

A/N: As a result of my unique method of doing things, I've come up with a prequel to Enigma, told in Kouji's POV. Yes, the sequel came before the prequel. That's how I roll, apparently; this is like what, the third time that's happened?  
Enigma is my favorite story and the one I think I'm the proudest of. All the other shit I write is sort of superficial, but the three stories I think I'll always be glad I've written are Confusion, Burn, and of course, Enigma.  
Funnily enough, I think they're my top three most unappreciated stories. I know they're melodramatic and stupid and depressing, and I'm not sure I like Crux that much, but I'm uploading it nonetheless.

Anyway, I've always wanted to expand on Kouji's issues, since before all you heard was from Takuya's heated misconceptions. This story is meant to mirror Enigma through a different perspective, so it's highly recommended that you read both stories to clearly understand where both men are coming from. It doesn't matter which one you read first; just read both of them. They're _meant_ to be read together as a set. When you have, please e-mail me or PM me what you thought of the set? I'd love to hear your opinions.

Crux

I loved you more than anything, Takuya.  
I couldn't show you that because I honestly had no means of showing you. Love was a foreign concept to me; how could I be in love? I was so cold and untouchable; that was my persona; how could I possibly be capable of loving someone? I didn't even think love could exist for me. Love just didn't work for me; it was like this nasty little piece you can't seem to fit into the puzzle you're working on, only to discover that it came from another puzzle altogether.

But I loved you, Takuya. You; of all people, you. I didn't understand why. You were so unusual. Unusual, but not unique or interesting or anything. There were probably a thousand guys like you, and had you been a single one of those other guys, I'd have probably hated you. Despised you, even. You were obnoxious and annoying and a threat to my carefully planned little existence; had you been anyone else, I'd have simply treated you with the same, indifferent cold that I do everyone else.

Not you, though. You were just there. There was no explanation to anything you did. Never at all. You loved me unconditionally, and me, well, I loved you, but…I don't know. It's hard to explain how it was for me. I felt as though I owed you something. It was like it was wrong for me to have love in my life without giving up something in return. I couldn't "give you my heart" though; at times it seemed that I had no heart to give. I wondered, how could you love such a heartless bastard like me? You gave me everything of you; I gave you nothing. You should have ditched me long ago.  
But for some reason, you wanted nothing in return except for me to love you. I would wrap my arms around you and tell you, whisper to you, embellish upon you the only amount of love I could possibly muster, most of it fake. I couldn't express my love in mushy-gushy goo like that. I didn't know how to love someone. I did love you, but I couldn't show you that. And you knew, too. You knew there was something wrong with me, yet you told me you loved me anyway. I couldn't help but wonder if you just pitied me or thought that even a person like me deserved a little love, and everything you did was out of compassion, not passion.  
I felt like a hypocrite for thinking that.

You couldn't understand what it was really like for me. The idea of love was just so simple for you. You had powerful feelings for me, and those feelings were called love, and you loved me, and that was it. But love was something so much more complex than that.  
Did I love you, or did I just really like you? Did I love the person, or the idea of the person you were? Did I only love you because you loved me, and if you suddenly no longer loved me, would I hurt? Or would I immediately cast you aside because I simply mimicked your feelings?  
You made it seem like everything was just so perfect. You being with me just made everything in our lives so damn perfect that nothing could interfere. But what if shit, happened, Takuya?  
If you got in a car crash and mutilated your face, your adorably boyish face, to where you had to get so much plastic surgery that you were unrecognizable, would I still love you?  
If your entire family died due to a horrible act of arson that was never brought to justice, and you became trapped in the crippling clutches of depression, would I love you enough to help you out of your sadness? Or would I shun you because you had become so introverted that you no longer lavished attention on me? Would I leave you to destroy yourself when you had saved me from a similar destruction?

I'm a selfish person. I know I'm very self-centered. Everything revolves around me, me, me; I know. I can only start and uphold conversations if they're about me. If we go on too long about something that's not me, I can only lend a listening ear, and politely offer words I don't mean so as not to start an argument. I was too selfish, too blind, and just too stupid to really express my true feelings, and even stupider to be unable to at least define them.  
I can never make any sense to myself, and not a word I say seems to follow up on the others. It's sick, like my train of thought just whizzes by and everything else is left behind. I want to contemplate on things like emotions, but the train flies right on through, ringing an obnoxious bell of logic in my head and telling me to stop focusing on things that made no sense, or else I'd miss the important stuff. The stuff that mattered.  
But you did matter, Takuya, I can't believe I ever thought different.

I hate being in love. It's not something I hide, though you think it's actually some other kind of inner turmoil. The truth is that nothing else, nothing my father ever said to me and no cruelness that had ever been forced on me was as painful as being in love with you. It was a horrible feeling. Instead of feeling floaty and happy just to be around you, like you were, I felt like I was dragging you down. You wanted to experience life, and you wanted to be happy. I was happy when I was miserable and sadness always forced itself on me, no matter how I tried to feel otherwise. I felt like I was built to be sad. It wasn't even that I had a sad life; I just existed to feel sadness. There pretty much was no other emotion for me.  
In a way, I was happy when you were happy. But when I was miserable, you were unhappy, and therefore, I was unhappy, but not the right kind of unhappy where I was miserable. I mean, I wasn't happy when you were unhappy. No, I mean, me being miserable is happy, but…no, not you though. The last thing I ever wanted was for you to be unhappy. I don't make any fucking sense. See? You just did it again. That's why I hate being in love. I totally confuse myself when I try to explain you. Love is something that tangles up my brain until my thoughts are horrifically moronic, and I can't get a straight point across if I wanted to. I NEED to be able to at least think clearly.  
Of course, you didn't understand that. You didn't think love needed explaining. You loved me, I loved you, and we should've just gone on happily ever after. Why analyze something like love?  
I had to. I didn't know how to go on any other way. I was just that type of person. And if I made myself and everyone around me unhappy by trying to analyze love, then damnit, I would.

I hate myself. It was no small secret. I can't stand myself and I spend hours thinking to myself just how much I hated myself. I hated that I hated myself; it was so stupid, and so moronic. Oh, I'm so depressed, pity me and feel sorry for me because I hate myself, boohoo. I didn't want any of your fucking pity. So excuse me if I get a little worked up sometimes; excuse me if while I'm wallowing in my own self hatred, I sometimes said things that seemed as though I hated you.  
It never meant I didn't love you.  
Jesus, I never wanted you to think that. Never. I understood that you wanted to help me, but, I didn't want help. I was beyond help. Why couldn't you just accept that? You didn't have to push your nose into every little issue I had. It hurt you. It hurt me. I was the only one allowed to hurt like this, damnit! I didn't want my own stupid misery to spread to you, not ever.  
Never. I never wanted you to be in the pain I was.

And yet, nothing I've ever gone through was as horrible as what I've put you through.  
I'm sorry, Takuya.  
I recognize the damage now. I recognize what I've done, and I realize that it's too late. I'm sorry. I don't know what the hell was wrong with me to make this happen. I can't believe... I can't even begin to fathom how I could have possibly caused so much pain on your part by wallowing in mine. I caused all of your misery. Isn't that a little ironic? The last thing I ever wanted to do was cause you pain, but because of my selfishness, all I ever did was cause you pain.  
I hate myself for that, Takuya. I hope you don't. If you do, I understand. I understand that you hate me for all the bullshit I've put you through. I almost hope that you do; maybe it can make up the lost years a little for you, maybe it'll make you heal easier to eat up your love with hate. If you don't, you really are a saint, and a little bit of an idiot. I love you so much.  
But _why_?  
Why did you do this to me? Fuck, who cares if you did it to me; why did you do it to _yourself?_ You didn't deserve this, Takuya. Maybe I did, but you absolutely didn't.  
No, I should've known. I should've known it would end terribly; I shouldn't have tried to step into something I knew would result in nothing but disaster.  
But had I known it would end like _this_…  
Oh, Takuya. Had I known, I'd have killed myself long before I had even met you.  
I'm sorry.

I saw you everywhere I went; back in high school, I mean. I noticed you everywhere. I wondered if you were stalking me, or if you just happened to be there a lot. It should've been no concern of mine; I almost never remember anyone's face. But I remember yours. I remember yours so clearly that if I saw you even once throughout the day, you remained in my mind for hours afterwards, endlessly walking through a slideshow in my head. I told myself I just saw you every day because your locker was next to mine. That was all. We just had the kind of schedule where we crossed each other a lot. That was all. We were probably in the same grade; maybe I'd even had you in one of my classes at one point, or seen you at an assembly or something. That was all.  
You walked past me once, before I really got to know you. Your mouth was wide open; you were staring at me, almost as if in awe. I felt like turning around and punching you for staring at me like that, because I didn't understand why you were doing it. Were you teasing me? Did you think I was strange or funny or weird? Were you just being some kind of cruel bully?  
I finally realized the truth; you _were _following me everywhere. You had this strange look on your face that I couldn't stand, and I was sure that as soon as you got me in a secluded place, you would pick a fight with me. You just had that look to you; you were a little tough guy who was all muscle and no brains, and you thought that brawn overpowered brain anytime.  
Unfortunately, I was a scrawny, hundred-pound shrimp. I had no choice but to retreat every time you tried to corner me.

Finally, it got to the point where I couldn't take it anymore; I had to pee. Between classes I rushed to the bathroom, hoping to avoid you, but there you were, right on my heel as always, ready and raring to pick a fight. I was afraid of you; I thought you were going to hurt me, but I'd be damned if I went without a fight. I prepared every muscle in my body to react and counter whatever attack you threw my way; I was ready for the worst.  
But you just gently took hold of my shoulder and turned me until I was facing you; your eyes were full of tenderness and your cheeks were flushed. You were out of breath; you could barely speak. And yet somehow, somehow, you just gasped out to me:  
"I love you."  
I was wrong. Looking for a fight had not been the worst thing you could've done to me. Dropping the "L" word on me was the worst possible thing you could've even conceived.

I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to react or how to respond, and so I just responded in the way I'd been prepared to.  
"You're sick." And I punched you, right in the eye, as hard as I could. You nearly flew backwards from the force of the hit, but you recovered. You held your face tenderly, not angry at all, but a little curious, and very interested. I don't read lips very well, but I think you muttered "Wow," instead of "Ow."  
I'd been scared so thoroughly that I couldn't have gotten myself to pee even if I tried, so I just ran out of there, embarrassed, ashamed, and steaming to myself until the end of my next class. The last thing I wanted to do was be secluded again, but by that time, I REALLY had to pee. I saw you watching me from a distance, but this time, you didn't follow me. You were holding ice over your eye. You were smiling.

You made me FEEL. I'd never felt so many emotions just from thinking about one person before. Did I like you? Did I hate you? Was I intrigued by you? Was I curious? Was I afraid? I had no idea what was wrong with me. I'd always just known exactly what was going on with me, like I had myself laid out so perfectly that I was simply an open book, ready to be picked up, read, and put down again, with everything always perfectly the same. And then suddenly, inexplicably, all these new pages that I'd never even noticed before were coming into light, and none of them matched the old ones; they all seemed to be from the wrong book. Love was just something that did not happen to _me_.  
You made me feel angry.  
You made me feel giddy.  
You made me feel excitement.  
You made me feel disappointment.  
Did I like you because you said you liked me? Was I so desperate for affection that I'd force myself to form feelings for you just because you were already ready and willing to reciprocate? Was I actually capable of love, or was I just a mirror, reflecting hate when it was shown towards me, and likewise reflecting love?  
I ran home to try and get rid of this ENERGY; this excited, nervous energy. I pushed myself hard until my legs practically folded under me, and even as I finally got home, weakly pulled myself upstairs and completely collapsed on my bed, I still thought of you, and you still made me feel. My heart was pounding from more than intense exercise. I thought of you all night; I was so full of this great, expanding air that I thought I would burst. And I nearly did as I pictured your smile in my mind, over and over again.  
You see, you dumbass, I really did like you. I mean, it was hard to admit it to myself, because I was such a hard-ass skeptic. Love? Pssh. I barely knew you.  
But I wanted to.

We followed each other. I don't know if you realized it, but instead of you following me, I was following you. I needed to observe you, to figure out WHO you were; who was this person who made me feel this way? You just really weren't anything SPECIAL. You were a stupid, perky teenage boy who liked life, and thought that life was always just dandy; there was never anything hard or difficult about it at all. There was probably nothing but air in your head. Even if I did _like _you, (it didn't even have to be love!) I should've just scoffed and pushed you away. We would be a horrible pair and logic told me that we would be unable to stand each other for very long. Besides, you WERE a guy. That in itself should've been more than enough reason for me to push you away. I didn't think my parents would be very interested in their psychological mindfuck of a son suddenly coming out of the closet.  
And yet, even now, at full strength, you made my knees weak.

We tip-toed around each other for a week, sometimes getting almost close enough to talk, but always keeping our distances, like two strange dogs sniffing and circling each other for signs of aggression. You weren't going to make any more moves; it was up to me. I knew you were doing it on purpose, and I almost really hated you for it. Why couldn't you be one of those ultra-romantic types who will persist in his quest for his lover's hand until they finally give in? Why stop and force me to make the next move?  
Because I owed you an apology. I had the perfect reason to just walk up to you and instigate conversation. You didn't. And you were gauging my interest in you; you were measuring whether or not I was that intrigued by you to pursue your company. If I were in your position, it'd be make perfect sense. I'd do the same thing. But because I wasn't in your position, and I was in the shitty one, it made me very unhappy. I tried to tell myself you were just trying to make yourself comfortable, not me uncomfortable. You weren't intentionally making me feel this way.  
I didn't even know your name.  
I didn't know who your friends were.  
I didn't know what classes you had.  
How old you were.  
What your voice sounded like.  
What you smelled like. Yeah, I kind of even wanted to know that.  
I didn't know anything about you. You were just this guy, this everyday, average, ordinary guy, who seemed to like making me uncomfortable. And yet I felt for you.  
I still didn't know if I loved you, but I "felt" for you. I'd never "felt" for anyone before. You _were _special.

I knew you purposely came to your locker two minutes, exactly two minutes, after I'd left mine. I picked up a few books, and left. I waited you out, hidden in the crowd, until you came to your locker. It was a little disturbing to imagine you hiding like I was now, watching me, making me spy on you because I didn't know how else to meet you.  
I went to my locker, sort of nonchalantly and a little agitated, as though I'd simply forgotten something and was just returning for that. You froze. You followed me, unblinking, your mouth hanging wide open. If you'd been anyone else, I'd have given you a nasty look and an even nastier remark, but you were you. I felt so self-conscious, so nervous, so...STUPID. I played a bit with my bangs while I was hidden behind the metal door, as if how they laid on my face actually mattered. I wondered if my hair was too frizzy. I wondered if there was any dirt on my face, or worse yet; if I was blushing. I'd brushed my teeth, but I wondered if by now, my breath had become unpleasant.  
So stupid.  
Okay...now or never. I knew I'd just look weak and stupid if I didn't do it now.

I grabbed a novel out of my locker just so I wouldn't come out empty handed, even though I already had two in my bag. I stared at it for a moment, as though my locker were an entire library and I was just deciding whether or not I wanted to take this particular book off the shelf, and then I closed the thing. You were robotically moving your arms from your bag to your locker. I saw you move the same folder twice. You were trying very hard not to look at me.  
I cleared my throat, and you looked up at me. You were smiling. Instead of looking nervous or shameful or self-loathing, you just looked...giddy. I was the only one who was making such a big deal out of it; this was my own weird little problem. You were totally comfortable.  
"I...uh..." Instead of sounding smooth and in control, my voice cracked with my nerves. I couldn't say I liked you too; I didn't. So I just pulled out the only ace I had to talk to you; an apology. "I'm sorry I hit you the other day." I tried to say it gruffly, sort of cool-like; not at all like you'd been eating away at me for the entire week, not like I was scared to death of you.  
"Oh, no problem. You pack a really good punch." It was the stupidest compliment anyone had ever given me, but I was flustered. Here this guy, with his stupid sport muscle, this guy who could probably tackle me to the ground without even a running start, complimented my strength.  
That didn't usually happen. People take one look at me and go: "Shrimp."  
"Yeah, well..." I stuffed my book in my bag and hoisted it on my shoulder, still trying to look cool, calm, and collect. What exactly was I trying to do, impress this guy? "Just don't mess with me anymore, alright?"  
"Sure, no problem." No problem, no problem. There was no problem; it was all in my head. For this guy, the word "problem" didn't even exist in a negative format.  
"Well, it's a problem for me," I said sourly, and you looked a little confused. Maybe I was right. Things were never "problems" for you; they were always "no problems." I should resent that, as I usually resent people who've never truly suffered life, but for some reason, it was kind of refreshing to be around someone so optimistic. "I punched you for no reason; that's unacceptable for me. I have to make it up to you in someway."  
"Oh, no, I'm not expecting anything from you." But you were still smiling. You WERE expecting something. I didn't know what you wanted. The bell rang, and abruptly, the crowd became an army of ants whose hill has been disturbed, although they scurried along with less motivation. I urged you again, just get an answer out of you.  
"Do you want me to..." I was reaching; grasping for SOMETHING I could do. Okay, okay…make it up to him…well, people like it when they get free stuff, right? Sure, primary reward: food. "Buy you a soda or something?" When I thought about it afterwards, it seemed so old fashioned and out of date to buy someone a soda. It was almost stupid. I was about to just say "Fuck you, whatever," and go on my unmerry way just to get away from you. But you replied all too quickly:  
"Sure; that sounds great." You stood. You were still smiling, and I couldn't figure out why. "Want to walk with me?"  
"Uh..." Your homeroom was in the complete opposite direction of mine. I'd probably be late if I went with you. "Sure. I mean, I guess that's fine."  
"You're sure it's no problem?" At this point, I usually feel like punching these kinds of people. Stop repeating yourselves, damnit, come up with some kind of metaphor or synonym for "no problem" if you must continue to be optimistic. But for some reason, it didn't really rub me the wrong way.  
"Oh no, not at all."

When I could manage it, I stuck with you all day.  
I bought you that soda.  
We hung out, like friends, even after school. Even if on the rare occasion I ever picked up a companion throughout my school years, I'd never really stuck with anyone after the final bell. My "friends" were always far away from my real life, but here you were, blatantly inserting yourself into it.  
We walked around and loitered in front of random buildings, just for the hell of it. We spent hours together, doing nothing but talk. It wasn't even really talk, it was meaningless, stupid chatter. Ordinarily, it would've pissed me off, but for some reason, it made me happy. Things were so different when I was with you; I felt like a completely different person.  
I learned everything about you, and I was hungry for more. You had a silly, almost immature sense of humor, which was immensely satisfying. Being around you reminded me that I was still a young kid; not a forced adult. I'd been an adult for so long that I'd forgotten how to be a kid, but you were steadily reminding me.  
I realized I was smiling a lot; way more than I usually did. I remember my face was hurting, and every so often, I'd just kill off my smile, and I'd reassume my tough kid poker face.  
You wouldn't let me, of course. Before long, I was smiling again, and laughing too. It seemed to be your goal, your quest to make me break a smile. It was never a problem.  
I wondered if we were just hanging out, or if we were sort of on an unofficial date.

I was just going to leave you with a simple "Goodbye." I didn't want to make it a big deal, and I didn't want you to get any ideas. But I couldn't control myself; I leaned in towards you, and pecked you on the cheek. I froze for a split second; why the hell did I just do that?! That was stupid. Very stupid. Stupid Kouji. Why would you freaking KISS the guy when you barely knew him?!  
But you didn't care. You just grinned. You were flush with happiness, like what I'd just done was the greatest thing I could've done.  
No problem, Kouji. No problems here.  
"I...uh...I'll see you around."  
"Cool, you too."  
I started to leave, but then I turned back around again. "Thanks for your company." You just chuckled; it was way too formal to say after all that, but you didn't care. I could make mistakes with you; you wouldn't penalize me for them. I could be human with you.  
"Ditto."

I still didn't understand. I still couldn't believe this wonderful FEELING I had. I didn't know if it was love, like, or infatuation, but I liked it. I liked feeling it. I pursued it. My heart had never known feeling like this before, and every time, it melted at the sight of you. If like wasn't love yet, it seemed like my heart would eventually warm up to the idea.

I was trying to understand what it meant to be in a relationship with someone, particularly another guy. That in itself was a pretty rough obstacle to get over; it was always a factor when I thought about us, and whether or not we should be together. Sometimes it seemed like just because of that I would have the perfect excuse to break up with you should I ever need to. Sometimes I loved you so much that I forgot you were another guy, and sometimes I couldn't bear to look at you for the exact same reason.  
I was afraid of what our parents would think. I didn't have any friends, but I was afraid of what your friends would think. I was afraid of everything about this. I was terrified and scared shitless. More than once I decided that I was going to break up with you before we even actually got together, but somehow, I never managed to pull it off. I found myself always wanting to be with you, and I knew I'd be the type to crawl back days after the "break-up." I told myself I was just sparing myself the drama.  
But you, you fool, you didn't give a damn. Everyone somehow knew within a week, and at first I was angry at you for it, but when I realized that the bomb you'd dropped wasn't quite as massive as I'd imagined, I settled into the idea. I think my parents were just happy I _actually_ had someone I _actually_ liked; they were more excited about the fact that I gave a damn about someone other than myself than they were distressed by the fact that that person happened to be male. Hell; even if you were a boy, at least you was a normal human being and not some freakshow. You were a little dim sometimes, but you were a charmer.  
I guess I understand their worry now, seeing as up until that point I'd been acting like some sociopath.  
Your parents were somewhat less cool with it, I think, but you never let me really into your world about exactly how bothered they were by it. I think they warmed up to it eventually, though. Everyone in our families just sort of acted like it was normal. I guess you are pretty convincing.  
And teasing or taunting at school? Pfft. Everyone liked you; everyone was afraid of me. The perfect combination provided almost no openings for teasing.  
Sometimes, it almost seemed like we were just made for each other. Nothing was better than that first week with you, being with you as often as I could around people who knew what we were and accepted us for it. Nothing could beat that until I realized that relationships required us spending way too much time with each other.

Before I'd always just been a really solitary person. I went to school, hated it, came home, and was by myself until I went to bed, woke up, and went back to school. I had this neat little bubble of loneliness floating around me all throughout the day, and I wasn't used to having to be there for someone. You kept asking me to go places, and you kept asking me to go do things with you. You wanted to talk a lot. You practically wanted us to share our lives, and I couldn't _stand _it. I was a lonely person. I had always had so much time alone, and you just kept pissing me off when you wanted us to go do things every day.  
One little date was enough to last me months. I didn't WANT to go out and do things.  
Then you can come to my house, you said. We can hang out at home.  
I didn't WANT you at my home. My little bubble did not include you, I said.  
I think I hurt your feelings.  
It's not that I didn't want to be around you; you were just pushing me too fast. I couldn't tolerate being around someone, even someone I had feelings for, for extended periods of time. I needed a vast amount of my time to be devoted to me, and with someone else in the picture, that was too hard. About 90% of my time had to be me time, and me time didn't involve you. No, I didn't want to talk to you over the phone. No, I don't want to exchange AIM addresses. No, I don't want you texting me constantly for every little action you do. No, no, no. I just wanted you to leave me alone.  
I sound like such a jerk.  
I finally had someone to be there for me, and I was pushing them away with all my might. I was purposely ostracizing myself because I had no other reaction. It was practically instinct to me. I just needed to be alone; as much as I wanted to be with you, I had to be alone.

Like now. I'm definitely alone now.

I sighed to myself, and hid my face with my hand again, shamefully trying to hide from the world. I just felt so void and empty inside that it seemed no feeling could shine through, and yet shame makes an appearance. I was so glad it was dark now, otherwise I'd be staring at my reflection in the mirror again, crying and despising myself for crying. I've broken it five times over the course of a few months during those moments.  
But in the dark, I'm calm.  
All of this seems so silly now. All of it. Every last detail, every stupid little mistake. I _was_ alone now, I thought dryly. I was alone now, and if I got my way, I'd always be alone from now on.  
After all, suicide was a one-way ticket to Hell.  
I guess my loneliness is just more important than you, Takuya...  
No, no it's not. That's wrong. I still love you. I hope you won't forget that when I go and leave you to stew in your own loneliness. I just have to do this. There's no other way, there just isn't. I've thought and thought and thought about it, and it's just killing me to NOT do it, to NOT die, to just live here, day in and day out, reliving these horrible moments over and over again...oh God, you just don't know what it's like! You just don't really understand how it's just eating me up from the inside and making me squirm in hatred and desperation...Great, now I'm crying again. It's like a knife being stuck into my chest and twisted with every breath I take, the resentment…  
It's better for both of us this way. I'm not being selfish; I'm just trying to think of you. You're young. You can get over this with time. You can move on with your life; you still have a chance. You can do what I've never been able to do, live happily ever after; even without me.  
It's alright, Takuya. Loneliness isn't so bad once you get used to it.

You were so freaking happy and I was so freaking miserable when I finally asked you, rather than the other way around, if we could go out on a date; except I didn't phrase it as a date. I asked if you could go out Friday night, and naturally, your response was another perky "no problem." It was still annoying, especially now that I was giving up my night of carefully planned nothingness to go out with you.  
I wasn't technically supposed to be driving on my own yet, but I had only a month to go and had been driving since I was twelve anyway, so I already had a car to use at my disposal. I picked you up, and I saw you waiting at the window when I pulled up to your house, like a kid expecting something super special. You jumped up as soon as you saw me and flew out the door, like if you didn't hurry your ass up, I would leave you here.  
And then when you got in the car, we said nothing, because for some reason, neither of us could talk. A few minutes in you made a few weak stabs at conversation and you tried to start off on a story, but I was pretending that I was focusing very hard on the road, and it gave me an excuse to not talk to you. It was dangerous for me to be driving without a license; in reality I was a month away from getting it, but I looked a year away from getting my permit. I didn't want to push my luck by looking like a kid out for a joyride. When you eventually turned on the radio, I felt incredibly stupid again, and grit my teeth so I wouldn't be tempted to drive myself into a tree. Of course, Kouji; normal people listen to music while they drive, they don't just sit in silence. You must have been terribly awkward to rather switch on the radio than sit here trying to talk to a brick wall.  
You tuned to a station I liked, where a song I liked was playing, and you stopped there. It made me feel better, a little calmer to realize that you at least listened to the same music I did, and at least when you stated that you liked the song, I was able to reply easily and truthfully that I did as well. That started you off on something you'd heard about the band that happened some time ago, and at least you helped eat up the silence.

When the car stopped and we reached the theater, you started trying to get closer to me. You walked very close to me as we neared the establishment, and you tried to lace your fingers around mine; I pushed you away by pretending I need to fish out my wallet. When you tried again, I blatantly shirked from you, and I mean obviously, plainly withdrew from your touch, and you looked sad. Not annoyed or frustrated; just sad, like a puppy dog pouting. It made me feel bad. I hadn't meant to make it seem like I didn't want YOU to touch me; I mean, I didn't mean it like that, it's just I'm not a touchy person, that's all.  
I tried to make up for the issue by putting my arm around your shoulder after we'd walked into the dark theater, and explained myself by saying, "It's not you; I just don't want people to see us like that." That seemed like a reasonable enough excuse. I mean, we were gay; you had to find some time to admit that. It wasn't exactly normal. Close family and friends might be able to tolerate it, but we still lived in a judgmental world.  
You just said "Right," listlessly, like what the fuck ever.  
We sat in the theater side by side, both of us about to burst with energy. Neither of us cared about the movie. You'd bought a huge tub of popcorn, I think to coerce me to reach in and share and have our hands meet like in the movies, but you couldn't have known that I don't like popcorn. I felt really bad again. Everything about this I felt bad about. I felt ready to cry, believe it or not; this was so bad for me. Resentment was just piling up more and more.  
You tried to touch my hand on the arm rest; I pulled my arms into my body and hid my hands in my legs. Every time your shoulder rubbed against me I jumped a little, and I couldn't bear to look at you, though your eyes were mostly settled on me. When you leaned just enough so that our shoulders were touching, I leaned the opposite way.  
I could hardly believe that this concept actually could be considered a date; how could two people go and do something like this together? Our first time together we'd just talked and talked and DONE something, and here all we're doing together is just sitting next to each other silently watching a hugeass movie. It was like, what was the point of going on a date to a movie theater? It made no sense! I suppose then the combo would be dinner and a movie, which meant going to the dinner after the movie so that you'd have something to talk about, but Christ, these two hours were torture! I wanted to be around you, but not like this. This had been a mistake.  
I was so freaked out by the experience that I just couldn't stomach any food. I went through a drive thru for you, and then dropped you off, eager to be rid of you. I could barely look you in the face when I said good bye, and you were the same.

I hope the night wasn't as bad for you as it was for me. I hated myself over it for hours. I'm so sorry to admit it because it feels pathetic, but I cut myself over it. I never did tell you how much of a cutter I was; I didn't want you to feel like you were the reason I was doing it. I hated that I cut in the first place; it was like the lowest rung on the pathetic ladder. I'm sorry. I just felt like such a fool; I felt like you must hate me now, so I had to be punished to make it up to you somehow. That's why; I did it because of how stupid I was, not because you made me do it. Besides, I knew you had zero respect for people who stooped to cutting themselves.  
You once said something like, "If they want to die already, just get it over with. There's no point in prolonging it by making completely useless slashes on your arms. It doesn't even freaking do anything, it's just pathetic. Crying for attention."  
I knew for certain that you were unaware that I cut; but I felt like you'd said it specifically to me. I almost followed your advice and killed myself after you'd said that to me, but I couldn't. I'd reached a point where my love for you surpassed my hatred of myself, at least for the time being.

I called you the next day to apologize, and before the words were even out of my mouth, you said "no problem!" like you always did, and I realized, yet again, that there was no problem with you; there was only a problem with me.

Ah, do you remember Christmas? Our first Christmas, I mean. It was as terrible as our first date. I tried to be merry and happy like everyone else was supposed to be, but I just never really cared for the holiday, so it was difficult to fake the proper amount of cheer. Now that I was driving I could go out and pick up any gift I wanted to give you, and I spent hours trying to figure it out. I could get you an item of clothing or something, but that seemed too impersonal. I could get you a video game, but all the games you liked were from those popular expensive series and I didn't want to seem like I was trying to win you over with cash. I didn't want to get you jewelry for the same reason, and also because that seemed kind of romantic. Candy was a big no; I knew all of your friends were already getting you candy because you were a candy hound.  
I swear, I spent hours going from store to store trying to find something that fit you, but wasn't too expensive or extravagant or wouldn't cause suspicion, and wasn't too little and insignificant and wouldn't make you feel like I didn't care enough.  
I'd never really had to put any serious thought into a Christmas present before. I'd never had to stop and think about what I was supposed to get someone for this holiday. I mean, I bought my Dad stuff, but I pointedly asked him what he wanted that I could afford, and he told me what Satomi wanted. The end. That approach seemed way too awkward for you. I had to actually THINK about you, so I could find exactly the right thing I knew you would want.  
I couldn't find such a magical gift, so I eventually bought a picture frame, took a picture of myself, and put it in there. You were constantly complaining that you didn't have any pictures of me, and I'm sure you didn't; I wasn't very photogenic. No matter what stupid thing I did that you should've hated me for, whether it was our horrendous date or my lack of affection, it was not having a picture of me that always seemed to set you off.  
At the time, it seemed like it was the best idea I had, and you would totally get it and see it was a meaningful gift. But after a while I was hoping the gift wouldn't seem too egotistical, like the fact that it was a picture of me made it a worthy gift. I almost chucked it several times, but decided that something was better than nothing at all.

I tried to come before your celebrations took place, and you answered the door like you were waiting for me again, like you'd been sitting in your window watching for me. You practically pulled me in and tried to infect me with holiday cheer, and I was immune. I wanted to leave, but only after you opened your present; I didn't care if it was early, I would rather you open it now than in front of your family as they gawked at how immodest I must be to gift you with a photo of myself. I almost felt like ripping it out of your hands and telling you that I didn't want you to have it.  
Your little brother distracted me from my dilemma by pointing out that we were standing directly under a clump of mistletoe, no doubt positioned to give his parents a reason to smooch around the kids at opportune moments.  
I was struck dumb. I didn't even hear Shinya's taunting and if you said anything to me, I didn't hear it. It was like the world stopped. I saw you staring at me, questioning, like you were saying, "So what are you going to do?"  
I didn't know what you wanted me to do. I was waiting for you to say something like, "He's just being stupid, don't worry about it," or maybe even "Go ahead; it's no problem," but you just watched me, waiting for my reaction to the situation.  
I figured that the first time I'd been in this situation you liked it when I kissed you, so I decided to do that.

This was so much worse than the first time. A quick peck on the cheek meant nothing, but mistletoe you were supposed to actually kiss someone. I think I went for you too quickly because you at first backed away, and I think I did the wrong thing by expecting you to want to use tongues. Your mouth was remaining closed and I panicked, and when you finally opened it and introduced your tongue into the equation, I had no idea how to continue. What was the point of this, again? Slapping tongues around for a few seconds? What did that even achieve?  
I tried to keep it going, because I wanted to kiss you. I wanted to somehow transfer my feelings for you into the kiss; I was really trying too, like maybe even if the kiss itself sucked, if you could just figure out how badly I wanted to tell you how much I loved you, just because of how enthusiastic I was about the kiss…  
But it felt like it was taking forever to get through; I was starting to feel stupid and self conscious. This was ridiculous and it was just doing more harm than good. Was I doing it wrong? I must've been; it felt nice, but it didn't feel right. The attempt was a failure, and if anything else you were probably more convinced of my coldness than ever. I moved away just as your hand reached up, and I wondered what you'd been about to do with it; push me away, I guess? Was it that bad?  
Afraid of what your hand was going to do, I pushed it down, and then thrust my own into my pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking. I felt completely and utterly freaked out. My stomach was so twisted that I felt like throwing up.  
Don't get me wrong; it's not like I was sickened by the thought of kissing you. I just felt _that _way again, stupid, like I didn't even deserve to live, I was so bad at life. It was so hard to keep a nondescript face. It was so hard not to scream, especially at your little brother's immediate proclamation of "You guys are weird!"

I had to get out of there as fast as I could. I couldn't even wait around to see you open your present and to watch your face fall when you realized how much of a self-centered bastard I was to think that giving you a picture of me qualified as a Christmas gift. You tried to drag me around and show me everything, still trying to make me feel cheerful about Christmas, and God forbid; you accidentally took us under the mistletoe a few times.  
I hurried out of there the moment the opportunity arose. You were so visibly upset at this point that I felt like this was the best thing I could do; get away from you. Maybe you could still have a good Christmas if I could just get away from you. There was no use continuing to infect you with my misery.  
I hope you didn't hate me when you unwrapped that present; I like to think you quietly opened it and threw it away or burned it or something so that we could forget it even existed. You never brought it up again, and I ended up being forced to give you a different picture some time down the road, so I figure that's what you did. Thankfully, you didn't blame me for being so egotistical; you forgave me.

It was cold out, so I had an excuse to wear jackets and long-sleeved shirts for the next few weeks. Thankfully, you didn't have a chance to notice the many, many cuts on my arms. I had to punish myself soundly for Christmas; it was like a requirement for me to be forgiven. I sometimes wish I'd told you so you would've felt better knowing I'd been sufficiently scolded for my behavior, but I didn't want to worry you. Thank you for accepting me even without a confirmation of my punishment; I promise I always did everything I could to make it up to you.

God. God, if there is a God, I don't want this to last long. Please. I know enough of cutting to know that it's slow, painful; sometimes completely worthless. But please, God, let me get it right the first time, so that I don't have time to save myself.  
I could've hung myself, but I wouldn't be able to do it to break my neck just right; I would've just choked to death, and that would've sucked. I could've overdosed on sleeping pills or Tylenol or something, but I'm terrified that it wouldn't be enough. I'd hate to down a whole bottle and wake up after being in a coma for months. I didn't want to FAIL killing myself. And I could've gotten to a tall building or something and jumped, but, shit, I didn't want to splatter all over a public concrete sidewalk. I wanted my death to be quiet and private. I could've shot myself, but I hadn't had time to purchase a gun, though I'd been meaning to, under the premises of protecting myself…and you. And you, you just said that you always felt protected with me.  
Oh, you. I love you. I love you so much. I'm so sorry. It hurts so much to think of you while I'm getting ready for all this. I wish I could just stop thinking. If I could stop thinking, I'd stop crying, and if I could stop crying, I'd stop sobbing, but if I stopped sobbing, I'd start screaming. Screaming. I'm just screaming inside, drowning in the turmoil you're putting me through. No, damnit, it's not you; you're not doing this to me, I promise.  
It's me. I'm the problem. I'm the one with the problem and when I'm around all I do is give you problems. But I promise Takuya; I won't be your problem for much longer.  
Please, just promise you'll move on without me. You've still got a long way to go; you've still got hopes and dreams. I've just been floundering these past few years; I've had nothing but you, and I can't stand hurting you anymore. Without you, I have nothing. I hate to die selfish, but I can't die without you.  
Besides, I would rather kill myself with you thinking I still loved you rather than break up with you and having you think I hate you.

I'm just sorry you're going to be the one that finds me. You absolutely don't deserve that, and I think that is the only reason I regret having to do this. But even if I jumped off a bridge or something, you'd probably be the one who'd be immediately available for identifying me, and I wouldn't want you to do that either.  
I'm sorry for everything. Sorry I'm alive. Sorry I'm going to die. Sorry for everything I did and didn't do. I'd write you a letter apologizing for every wrong thing that I've done, but I feel like if I stopped and composed myself enough to write a letter, I might not go through with it. I wanted to die. I didn't want to give myself second thoughts. I just wanted to get it over with. I was way overdue.

I hope you don't blame me for dying without leaving you a note. I just hope you know I love you. You were the only thing about my life I loved. I know it's selfish, but I'm glad I met you. I'm glad. I take back what I said before about dying before I met you, because then I truly would have died without ever having lived. All the pain and suffering I've put you through makes me feel terrible, but the fact that I had someone in this stupid world to love makes me glad. I felt like for at least a short while, I had some kind of purpose in life.  
I'm especially sorry that I'm never going to see you again; I know that wherever you're going when you die, it'll be a lot nicer than where I'm going. I almost want to wait until you get back from shopping so I could just see your face again, and then kiss you and try to tell you how much you really mean to me…but, if I wait, I'll put it off again. I have to kill myself now. I can't put it off any more.  
Just don't be too upset, please, don't…I'll miss you in the end a lot more than you'll miss me. Just give it a few weeks; you'll eventually realize you're a lot better off without me. Don't be rash, just let yourself heal; hate me if you need to. Just get over me.  
Please don't miss me.  
Please don't become what I am.  
Please don't become self destructive over me. You're perfect the way you are; I've been nothing but flawed since I came here. I deserve to die, you deserve a good life with a good guy. Or girl, I don't care anymore. I'm sorry about that too; I never meant to be so damn overprotective. I was always just so afraid of losing you…  
I'm just begging you; please don't follow me. This is for your own good, okay? I'm just thinking about you. I love you, you know. Very, very much.

Sex.

Oh, God, what a horrible word that is. Sex. For the longest time I'd always kind of considered myself "asexual," or something, you know? Just some kind of person who wasn't into sex. That's why I guess I'd settled in okay to the idea of having a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend when you first came along; I'd never thought much about it either way. I'd never even considered that I might find someone I loved so much that I'd want to have sex with them, so when I found you, I hadn't prepared for anything. Other boys my age, even if they were virgins, already knew everything about sex from porn and stuff. Me, I knew the logical side of it, the whole concept of reproduction and such. But that wasn't even the RIGHT kind of sex, not for this…I mean, we were both men. How did I make you feel good? I didn't know how to do _it_ with a man.  
I didn't even know if I could do it. The indescribable feelings had indeed become love, and they had already surpassed that, becoming the even more unfamiliar feelings of desire and passion. I wanted sex with you, but I didn't know if I could do it, if I could even instigate it; hell, I wasn't totally sure I could rise to the occasion around you. I was so nervous and self-conscious when I was naked; how could that not be awkward?  
It was awkward enough being next to you and knowing, just being able to feel how bad you wanted me. Sometimes I imagined that at some point you were just going to tackle me and start taking off my clothes. I wondered if you could feel just how badly I wanted you too; sometimes I was the one that wanted to tackle you. I knew you wouldn't mind.  
I couldn't give in. So I didn't for a long time.

It was during one of those rare occasions that I'd invited you to my house that it all sort of happened. I think it kind of spiraled out of control. My parents suddenly left us with the house to ourselves, and we found ourselves alone. The radio was on low, and all of a sudden, out of no where, came this song where the beat was slow while the lyrics were prompting. We were lying with each other on the couch, watching a movie, and it jumped into a lovey-dovey romantic scene, one that usually preludes sappy love-making rated M for Mature softcore, which was entirely unexpected seeing as it was an action movie. It all just sort of set itself up, and we knew it too; we could hear, practically feel each other's heart beating, and I could practically feel you getting warmer for me. We both knew we wanted each other, sure, but we'd always been able to ignore those feelings, and it wasn't like we'd die if we didn't get sex.

But my parents were _gone_, and from what I knew they'd be gone for a while. The song was insistent, and so were you. We agreed we were bored of the movie and we shut that off, searching for something else to do before the stars actually started getting hot and heavy. I'm not sure if you were joking or serious, but you kept taunting me…well, I guess not "taunting," but I can't think of a proper word for it. You just kept on trying to work me up, saying stupid things I wanted to hear, hoping I'd say them back, or at least letting me know it would be okay for us to do it. I didn't know what you wanted to hear in return; I didn't know how you knew what I wanted. As usual, I was stupid and unprepared for a pretty normal aspect of life.  
I couldn't lead you to another subject; you kept drifting back to sex, and somehow the song after the first one continued setting the mood, only it was more fast-paced, demanding that desire be fulfilled. I could tell you wanted it bad and you weren't making my situation any better. I tried to remain in control; I really did. I didn't want to give myself to that stupid, primal urge. I was better than that.  
But you just couldn't…

Before I knew it, we'd led each other to the bed. I was remembering Christmas and thinking about how horribly I'd failed at kissing you, but you kept tempting me; reaching in, then pulling away, leaning forward, then coyly drifting just out of reach; it was like you were waiting for me to go for you, even if I kissed horribly. It wasn't enough for you to want me and for me to simply respond; I had to want you back. It was so obvious what you wanted, and I couldn't do it; I couldn't; I couldn't…

I managed to kiss you. I thought I could end it at that. Maybe we didn't have to go off into real sex; we could just make out. Once you remembered just how bad of a kisser I was, I knew you'd back off.  
But the plan backfired; YOU were a very nice kisser, and it felt really good; too good, like maybe I didn't deserve this. Maybe neither of us was very skilled or proficient at kissing, but it felt really nice, and it was like a really obvious wake-up call.  
My nerves caused me to back away a few times, but you kept going for me each time, and I returned for more. It finally got to a point where I couldn't pull away from you. I loved kissing you; I was so hungry for you, so starved for affection and sexual release that I'd do anything for contact. My hard-on was actually really painful, my need was so great.  
I took hold of your arm, hoping maybe to lead your hand to it, but then I got sidetracked, and I ignored your arm, found your shirt and tore that off, as well as the undershirt beneath it. As soon as I saw your bare chest I wanted to see all of you nude, and you didn't exactly resist, so I pushed you down into the bed and yanked off your pants too, and your boxers under that, still trying to deeply kiss you all the while, paying no attention to you. Your body was just warm and lovely and reciprocating what I felt, so I guess I just didn't really care.  
I forgot, I guess. I can't really express my feelings and I can't really give myself to another person. I knew sex was supposed to be intimate, but I didn't feel like being intimate; just horny. I wanted you. You'd seen to it that I was practically suffering from my need, and I couldn't hold back. You offered, I took you up on your offer. It wasn't really, fair, I know. I'm sorry.

I didn't even know what came over me. Somehow I figured out we were going for anal sex; somehow I decided that I wanted to be on top. As soon as my clothes were off I got you on your knees and was preparing you, and you didn't exactly resist; in fact, you were sort of making what sounded like kind of pleased noises. I had totally lost all control; I wanted sex BAD, and I didn't want to wait or take it slow or be cautious or anything. I just wanted you so _bad_; I'd never wanted anything or anyone as badly as I'd wanted you right then. I was so aroused I could barely stand it; it was causing me physical distress to not satisfy it. I just did everything in a frenzy because I couldn't wait to take you.  
Maybe if I'd told you things like this, you would've been okay. I could've talked dirty to you and told you how badly I wanted you; if I could just said something, I think it all would've been better. If I could've even gotten out something stupid like "you're so hot" or something, I think it wouldn't have been as bad as it was. I think the fact that I totally ignored you is what made it so bad.  
But I couldn't wait long enough to speak; my erection wasn't waiting for anything. Almost of its own accord it seemed it planted itself in you, and it felt too good for me to stop and think of anything. You still sounded kind of pleased, you made these almost pained moaning noises. I tried to stop and ask if you were okay, but the rest of my body had no intentions of stopping. I was off like some horny dog on some docile bitch and I couldn't get a single word out; the only thing breaking the silence aside from the thumps and squeaks from the bed were your throaty groans and my frantic pants. I was totally out of it; I felt almost high, it felt so good.  
I couldn't have gone for more than two or three minutes before I lost it; two or three minutes may not seem that long in the real world, but during sex, it was an eternity of pleasure. For once in my life, I was really happy. Just happy in general, for almost no reason.  
Of course, that was when I saw you, and realized that the bottom line was clear: you had suffered as a result.  
I was disgusted with myself; with _it_. I was still feeling rolling waves of pleasure and you looked miserable. The euphoria was short-lived and stewing hate immediately resumed, especially when we fell out of the impersonal position we'd been in and laid next to each other, and you looked so sad. This was beyond a puppy dog pout; this was total, aching sadness, and crushing disappointment. You almost looked ready to cry, but you were stoically hanging on.  
Naturally. Something I found pleasurable could only be a source of pain for the only person in the world I actually fucking loved; that I actually trusted to do this with.  
My God, I was a disgusting, selfish pig.

I tried to apologize, but I was angry with myself. I still hadn't regained my composure or control; I think the turmoil I was going through was pretty obvious. You tried to comfort me, and I felt even more inane. You were the one who needed some compassion, some care; not me. But I couldn't do it for you, so you provided enough for two. You tried to say things like "it was good; really" to get me to feel better, and I knew you were lying; I knew it so keenly that I just wanted to start screaming at you. I WANTED you to yell at me; I WANTED you to be angry at me for once in your damn life. It wasn't normal that you should be so forgiving, even when I was obviously at fault! But all you kept saying was "no problem. No problem, Kouji. This was just practice; it'll get better."  
I hoped there wouldn't ever be a next time. I was already horny again and badly wanted to go another round, but I wouldn't let myself. I'd never let my vicious hormones take control again. I'd _never_ lose control again. Next time, it could be even worse.

Again with the pitiful, emo, senseless cutting. My dick this time; never done it before, and it hurt like a bitch. But it had been the source of all our misery, and it needed to be punished thoroughly. I never again wanted to let a stupid _erection_ make me throw away all inhibition. Every time it perked up, I punished it. I had to punish it many times before it got the picture.  
It hurt for a long time, which gave us plenty of time to recover after the failed encounter we'd had before. The second time was easier; I put all my attention on you and devoted everything to making you happy. I knew my pleasure would somehow result in your pain, so I couldn't give myself that. When it was obvious you enjoyed it, I resolved to revolving sex entirely around you. I learned every trick in the book to satisfy you while providing myself minimal opportunities to achieve relief. Everything I ever did during sex was for you, and if I got some kind of pleasure out of it as a side effect, that was fine. But it was never, ever again going to be about me.

Now and then you'd offer to do something for me, and I guess you felt sorry for me or something. I didn't want that though; not only because I didn't want you to ever get a real good look at my dick to see the scars on it, but I just wanted you to be happy. I can't complain; I denied myself pleasure, and that was what made me happy. That warm, satisfied feeling of knowing I'd somehow made you happy was better than ten orgasms. Sex had once again ceased to be important.

I was running out of time. You would probably be coming home soon, and I knew that the second I saw you, I would suddenly go back against all my promises and I'd force myself to stick around. I had to kill myself before the sight of you gave me second thoughts. I could see you already in my mind's eye, sad and melancholy, lacking the prime and luster you'd had in your youth. It was like being around me had aged you far beyond twenty-five, like I ruined the best part of your life. That's why I had to hurry up and get this over with; I had to stop you from losing any more of your precious time. I was sure you'd be sad for a while afterwards, but I was equally sure that you would heal. I was sure. You were you, after all. You always seemed to rebound each time, stronger than ever. Maybe when I was gone you would look young and happy again; maybe when I die you'll start smiling more. All I want is for you to be happy; that's the only reason I'm doing this, Takuya. It's not so much that I hate myself, although that plays a big part in it. It's just that all I ever wanted was for you smile again, like you did the first time I kissed you, before you got yourself lost in all this mess. I hope you will find someone else who makes you smile like that, every single day.

I can't decide where to do it. Initially I was going to do it in the tub, but bathing makes me relax, and I didn't want to relax; relaxing would inevitably end up with me easing down from my suicidal high and deciding that maybe I didn't have to kill myself after all. I was going to do it over the sink, glaring at myself in the mirror, but I think watching myself do it would just make me panic. It was kind of like how hard it was for me to put contacts in; watching my finger descend into my eyeball freaked me out.

I think I should just do it on the bed. The bed reminds me of long, restless nights and terrible, recurring nightmares. It's a symbol of discomfort, and I don't think I'll relax there.

I have a very sharp, very new razor blade. It's small, but long enough that it'll reach my jugular after it gets through my neck.

I'm going to slice my throat. As long as I do it right, I'll die in seconds. No more than ten, maybe twenty. Besides, when I make the cut, I won't be able to do anything. I can't call an ambulance and I'll barely be able to move except for clutching my bleeding throat. I'll die too fast to try to save myself. It'll happen too quick after I make the cut to have regrets. Panic, maybe, and some pain, but no regrets.

All I want is some peace. All I want is to settle down and die.

Besides, Takuya, I don't want you to think I died in pain. I'll have maybe a few seconds of pain, but that's it.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe you'd be happier for me to die screaming in agony; that's why I considered burning down the apartment and locking myself in it. But then you'd have nowhere to go, and a lot of your belongings would go with it, and I like to think you don't hate me that much.

I'm staring in the mirror again. My eyes are red and puffy from crying almost nonstop for about two hours, and they're dry and itchy as a result. I think I cried on purpose; crying releases little hormones that make you calm. That's why you cry when you're upset and feel better afterwards. The tears did their work; I know for certain I'm about to kill myself, and I'm perfectly calm, almost sleepy. I can't think straight anymore; my mind has just split after reeling on everything I've been through in the past few hours. I'll descend quickly into death, that I know for certain. This is all almost like a dream, and I hope I don't abruptly wake up afterwards. I'd hate to find how after I've killed myself that my death was all an illusion, and that I'll have to suffer through it again.  
I keep staring at my reflection. I want to punch it and break this stupid mirror one last time, but I won't. I just want to see myself, looking in disgust at the man I'd become after living such a pathetic life for so long.

I really wish I had killed myself a long time ago, maybe sometime after I'd met you, so that I'd have still known your love, but at a point where you weren't yet caught in my web of woe. I should've done it when it would've been easier for you to go on and forget me.

My cell phone buzzes. You've sent me a text message asking if I like daikon. I don't, and you reply saying, "That's good; I don't either J" Something so mundane in all this misery makes me smile.

I kind of wish I were staying. You're trying so hard to make our anniversary tomorrow count, and you really insisted on making dinner. I kind of wish I had chosen another time to kill myself, but I knew the longer I waited, the harder it would be. If I waited until after our tenth anniversary, it'd just be that much harder for you to deal with my loss. If I did it before, it wouldn't count…

Fuck me. I'm being such a dick doing this now. I should've done it months ago. I knew it was over years ago. Why did I really have to wait so long, until this point?

Maybe I really shouldn't do it…  
No, I have to. If I put it off I'll just inevitably reach this point again.  
But do I have to do it today? You'll be so upset.  
Yes. It's imperative that I do it tonight. No, not just tonight, NOW. Stop procrastinating. Just do it now.  
Oh, it'll hurt. I can't glaze over that.  
Who cares; ten seconds of pain opposed to a lifetime of agony? Suicide please.  
Oh, now I'm just being melodramatic...  
Just shut up. Just do it. Get a fucking knife and stick it in my throat if I have to.  
But it'd be a lot more painless with a gun. Can't we just wait until tomorrow, or next week maybe…?  
No, no, NO. Just do it! Shit, you'll be home soon, Takuya!  
If you saw me here, would you help me, or let me bleed until I died…? Would it sooth your conscious about getting me out of your life?  
It'll be terrible after I've actually died, I'll bet. It's my own fucking fault for being an atheist, Kouji; I should've believed in something so I'd know where I'd be going.  
Hell. Obviously I'm going to hell. No matter what you are, suicide is murder, and murder lands you in hell. Or maybe not; maybe it's all just puffed up propaganda and I'll never know a sentient thought after this.  
Yeah, but I'll never know.

I'm pretty sure that I'm borderline crazy. Seriously contemplating suicide just sends me over the border. Having conversations with myself is pretty common, especially when I began refusing to take all that stupid medication they gave me to try and keep me drugged up. More often than not I can convince myself to calm down; I am pretty persuasive, even to myself. But this time, I was adamant. I would not back down.

You send me a text message again, this time asking what kind of alcohol I feel like tonight. I don't want you to worry about what I'm up to, so I just reply with my old stand by and ask for _koshu_. After you reply with how boring the ordinary is, I respond with _genshu_. You buy that.  
I think I could use some koshu now. A little liquid courage never hurt anyone.  
Unless they were using the liquid courage to kill themselves. Ha. Ha.  
I think I am crazy. I'm beyond crazy, I'm flat out fucked up. What else is new, and duh? I'm about to kill myself. I'm passed fucked up, I'm in cuckooville. Ha. Ha.  
Death is the answer, death is the answer…gotta go with it while that hormonal sadness is still inducing calm. Fuck me, fuck death, fuck you.  
No, not fuck you. I take that back. I love you, always will. Even if I'm burning in hell after this, I'll still love you. I won't let you hurt anymore.

The razor feels cool and smooth in my hand, like a sliver of ice. I feel all empowered to have it between my fingertips, knowing what it could do. I'm familiar with you, o' razorblade, you and countless knives with pretty handles.  
You made me get rid of them. I think you were uncomfortable with them in the house knowing what they could do, or actually, what I could do with them.  
I miss them. My favorite silver knife with the black handle would've been nice for this job. But oh well, it's gone to who-knows-where.

I'm sitting on the bed now. I've been sitting here for a while, staring at the razorblade. I'm tempted to run up to the mirror again, not only to stare at my face but also at my neck. I almost feel like I have to stare at where I need to make the cut so that I know for sure where to run the blade, but I know better. I can clearly feel my pulse and have studied my throat so often in the past few hours that I know by heart and by touch where to slice. I know where to go in, dig, and come out again; I'm sure I can even remember it during the panic and shock of blood gushing from my neck.

I can't hear anything but my heart. My heart is going crazy, but I still feel calm. It's almost eerie how calm and aloof I feel with my heart going so frantically.  
My hand feels numb. I've been holding the razorblade so hard for so long that I can barely feel it anymore. I run a thumb down it; there's a sharp, icy tingle of pain, and it starts bleeding. I'm getting a rush from the adrenaline.  
See? It doesn't hurt. I've done it so many times before that I'll barely even feel it. I'll just hold my breath so I won't have to gasp for air when I realize I can't breathe.  
Thump, thump, thump.  
My cell phone buzzes again, but I don't go for it. I know you won't be concerned when I don't reply; you'll just think I didn't hear it go off or something.  
Thump, thump, thump.  
My heart is being pretty obnoxious. It's too loud.  
Should stab my heart or something instead. Make it shut up. Theoretically it sounds good, but on the whole it's not a very plausible way to die.  
Shut up heart. Seriously. Just shut up. You're cold and disgustingly indifferent 99.9% of the rest of the time, why do you have to give a shit now?  
Thumpthumpthump hahaha.  
Razorblade feels very good in my hand. Very smooth, very nice, very sharp. It's been a long time since I've been able to cut my arm cleanly like this. It's just practice, just building up to it. I'll break the skin with no effort, I'll do it hard enough to practically decapitate myself if I have to; I just need to die.

Thumpthumpthump fucking hate you heart.  
Fucking HATE YOU. Why did you have to get Takuya involved in all this? You didn't deserve this, Takuya, and my fucking heart kept getting in the way…  
I'm not really crazy, right? A crazy person doesn't know when they're crazy, right? So admitting I'm crazy means I'm not crazy. Catch-22 right?  
I'm just logical. I know what the right answer is.

I have the razor pressed right against my throat. Thumpthumpthumpthump. I can practically feel my pulse jutting out of my throat, beating against the blade. My heart is going so hard it hurts. Shut up heart. Just go to sleep or something. You've laid dormant for so long, why do you have to suddenly wake up and give a shit now?  
Do it, just press a little harder and then it's just a little swipe…  
No, not yet. I changed my mind.  
Not about killing myself.  
I've decided I have to write a note.  
I have to let you know. I can't just disappear without letting you know why.  
Like I'm threatening myself at knifepoint or something, I keep the cool blade pressed against my pulse as I get out a pen and a little sheet of paper. I'm not holding the blade in my dominant hand, but I'm sure I can still use it to great effect if I needed to.  
Just need to write a note. Have to let you know why.  
Then I'm doing it. No more procrastinating. I'm dead.

_Takuya.  
_I don't know how to start the note. I can't think clearly. My mind is reeling with memories and regrets and self-disgust and…  
_I love you.  
_I feel like writing that a million more times. I do. I truly do. Everything comes back to me again; meeting you for the first time and then going on our pitiful date, and our first lousy Christmas and our horrific first time; I can't help but think of your precious smile…  
Thumpthumpthump SHUT UP HEART.  
_This is best for both of us. I just don't want you to hurt anymore. I know I've failed you. I know I've done nothing in my life to deserve you. I cannot allow myself to let you live with my misery for the rest of your life. I can't forgive myself for all the shit I've put you through.  
_No time for proofreading. No time to stop and make sense. Just write it and go.  
_I love you, that's why I'm doing this. I want you to be happy, so I'm going to wipe myself from this earth. I don't want you to hurt anymore.  
_I'm starting to cry again. Not hard, not notably. Just little tears are dripping down my face, onto the paper. I can't read it; my vision is too blurry. I feel exhausted and overwhelmed. My heart is finally dying down.  
I need to do it now before I decide to give up on it entirely.  
_Please forgive me.  
__I love you.  
__Kouji._

I place it on the nightstand and never look at it again. I just close my eyes, refusing to look at the shiny blade as I replace it in my dominant hand. I feel my jugular beating strongly against the blade. I try not to feel. I try not to think.  
All I can see is you, your eyes drowned in sorrow…  
Please don't grieve for me, please don't miss me. Please don't follow me. You're perfect the way you are. I just can't stand to mess up your life anymore.  
I hide my face in my free hand and hunch over, pressing harder. It breaks the skin, prematurely, not dangerously. The warm blood drips off the cool blade and down my shirt. The pain is sweet and familiar.  
Takuya, I love you. If you even heard me talking to you, all you'd hear would be the ravings of a madman. I should've warned you what you were getting yourself into. If you hate me, that's okay. In a way, I hate you too. It's painful to say, but I hate you too.  
I hate that you were never strong enough to leave me on your own.  
I hate that you tried to make it seem like we were ever a normal couple.  
I hate that you were kind to me when no one else was.  
I hate that you were a hopeless romantic.  
I hate that you loved me.  
But I love you so much more than all of those stupid things.  
I am glad that I met you and fell in love with you. And I hate myself for that.

Before I let my brain know what my hand is doing, I dig deep into my throat and slash right across my jugular. Torrent of blood; I can't breath; I'm in shock. I put a hand to my neck, trying to stop the bleeding.  
Did I just do it?  
Stupid heart, stupid heart that led me to you in the first place…it won't stop fucking beating.  
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. It's afraid. It thinks we're dying, but I still feel so alive, so alert.  
I'm curling up on the bed, the razorblade long forgotten as my hands clutch my throat and the blood flows freely through my fingers. I can't see anything. I know I'm still alive though; I'm thinking, right? Just die already, damnit, just die.

Did I tell you in my note that I loved you? I can't remember. Did I leave the note or was it all in my head? Am I really dying or is this a dream? I'll wake up soon; you never die in dreams.  
I love you. I hope you know that. I hope you know that when I'm rotting and burning in hell and you can finally move on and be happy. I won't allow myself to continue killing you. Shit, I should be dead by now…

This is for you, Takuya.

I fumble for the blade and slash my throat again before it slides out of my slippery fingers. More spurting blood. I try to gasp for breath and just hear a gurgling sound. Blood fills my mouth. It's all over my hands, all over my shirt, all over the sheets. I've never seen so much blood before; I didn't even know I could release that much blood in mere seconds.  
I can't see anything.  
Thump, thump, thump.  
My heart is slowly dying. Appropriate. It's finally coming to terms with itself.  
Thump, thump, thump.  
My arms go limp and return to my sides. I can still feel blood flowing. How long as it been since I did it? I don't know. I don't care. Neither does my dead heart.  
I know saying "I loved you with all my heart" doesn't mean much, but I did. I promise I did. You were the only reason my heart kept beating.  
And it's for you that I finally force it to cease beating. I love you to the end.

Please love me. Please. Please pray for me. Please mourn for me.  
And for the love of God, please just say good bye.  
I love you.  
Please…  
Thump…thump…  
_Thump._


End file.
